


Between stimulus and response there is a space

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Catharsis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It'll hurt," he said, like Sherlock hadn't thought of that.</p><p>(Of course he'd thought of that. It wasn't precisely the whole point, but it wasn't <i>not</i>, either.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between stimulus and response there is a space

**Author's Note:**

> My current WIP has been knocking me around a bit, emotionally, and I just really needed to write some cathartic H/C with these guys.
> 
> Title from a quote by Viktor E. Frankl.

John hadn't wanted to do it, of course, had given Sherlock that _look_ that managed to convey both his doubts about Sherlock's sanity and John's confusion about several of his own life choices.

"It'll hurt," he said, like Sherlock hadn't thought of that.

(Of _course_ he'd thought of that. It wasn't precisely the whole point, but it wasn't _not_ , either.)

"Yes," he said, and refrained from rolling his eyes only because he was still trying to convince him.

John took the flogger gingerly and Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Do you, ah--" John began, but Sherlock had already turned his back on him, pale fingers working against dark fabric to unfasten the long line of his shirt buttons. He slid the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and turned to rest his hands on the mantle.

John hesitated.

"Come on, then," Sherlock prompted him, shifting his shoulders impatiently. He needed to get this part over with so he could start measuring the colour of the bruises; as it was, he'd have to wait at least a day, and--

The first impact caught him by surprise. He felt the air leave his lungs with the shock of it, and even as it did he was aware it hadn't been enough, that the bruises he'd seen on that body would have required nearly twice that amount of force.

"Is that...?" John said behind him, and Sherlock turned his head to glare at him over his shoulder, tightening his grip on the mantle.

"It's for a _case_ , John. Put your back into it, you won't hurt me."

Sherlock knew that John had just enough ex-army pride that that sort of assertion would be read as a challenge. His forehead creased in determination and Sherlock brought his gaze back around to the front, steeling himself.

The second blow left a fierce burn in its wake, and Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. "Good, John," he said when he could trust his voice again, and shuffled his feet forward to lean his forehead against the mantle.

After that, time seemed to stretch, the blows coming in quick succession. Sherlock could feel the stinging heat of the flogger as it landed, the pain spreading through muscles from arse to shoulders, and he squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself quiet.

By the fifteenth blow John was panting and there was sweat sticking Sherlock's hair to the nape of his neck, beginning to prickle and pool along the ridge of his spine. It took him a long moment to realise that John had moved to stand beside him.

"Enough?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak just yet. "Right, okay. There's a bit of blood just there--" he reached out to touch a spot along the outer curve of Sherlock's left ribcage, where the tips of the flogger had landed with a vicious curl, and Sherlock actually flinched away from the touch on his hot skin. "Just. Ah. Just stay here, then, okay? I'll get some disinfectant, and be right back."

* * *

By the time John returned, Sherlock's back felt like it was on fire. It was remarkable, really, the way the pain seemed to increase with time, even though he wasn't actually being hit anymore.

He was observing the pain, Sherlock realised, to avoid feeling it. He didn't know whether to be more annoyed that he was so transparent, or that it _wasn't working_. His hands were clenched so tightly into fists that the joints seemed to grind against each other.

"Over here," he heard John say, his voice calm and professional. "Let me get that cleaned up."

Sherlock straightened (he wouldn't acknowledge the ache in his muscles at the movement, either, he _wouldn't_ ) and followed John over to the sofa.

"Thank you. Really, John, it's all right; if you'll just make a note of the time," he heard himself say, his voice sounding normal and steady, at least to his own ears. "It doesn't need--"

John wasn't listening, though, just guiding him down onto his stomach on the cushions, and Sherlock rested his forehead on his folded arms, turning his face toward the backrest of the sofa.

John's hands on his back were cool (cooler than his own burning skin, certainly), dry, precise. "I'm sorry about that," he said, finger brushing gently against the skin as he dabbed at the little trickle of blood there. "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's just a bit of skin, it'll heal," Sherlock heard himself say dismissively.

The sting of the disinfectant was sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes, and--

 _Oh._

That was all it took, that prickle of heat behind his closed eyelids, and Sherlock could feel the heat spreading outward from there in a quick flush across his face as the tears began to flow. He held his breath and tried to stop them by force of will, but once they'd started he simply _couldn't_.

It was as though he'd been holding them inside himself, inside a container that had simply shattered.

John continued to work, pressing a bit of gauze to the spot with careful fingers, until Sherlock was forced to take a deep inhale that could only be described as _shuddering_. He squeezed his eyelids together and didn't move, hoping John somehow hadn't noticed.

"Sherlock."

John sounded-- what? Angry, worried? Sherlock didn't respond, just tightened his muscles around his bones in an effort to hold himself together. He was _fine_ , it was nothing. He'd asked for it.

"Look at me. _Sherlock._ "

Exasperated. Irritated. Affectionate.

Oh, _fuck_.

Then he was crying in earnest, and John was trying to get him to turn his head but he didn't want to, he didn't want John to _see_ , didn't know why he was responding like this, great wracking sobs stretching the skin of his back, salty tears on his face, running down to soak into the fabric of the cushions.

John gave up trying to turn Sherlock's head and instead began wiggling himself down against the armrest, and somehow it ended with John sitting on the sofa, Sherlock's head in his lap, Sherlock's nose buried in the scratchy warmth of his jumper.

Sherlock still couldn't bring himself to look at him, but that seemed all right with John, who had one hand twined in Sherlock's hair, his thumb stroking long, soothing lines against his forehead and temple. When he rested his other hand (gently; it was impossibly cool and kind, that hand, _John's_ hand ) on Sherlock's upper back, against the burning ache of the welts and fresh bruises, Sherlock thought he'd simply shake to pieces.

"It's all right," John was saying, over and over until the words were just syllables, just pleasant sounds to hold Sherlock together, shoring him up. "It's all right, you're all right."

He didn't apologise, and Sherlock loved him for it, in that moment; loved that there was no forgiveness asked or required, by either of them.

It _was_ all right, just as it was: the two of them on the sofa, and if the unformed tail-end of tears were still flowing from Sherlock's eyes when he drifted off to sleep, head pillowed on John's lap while his hands soothed Sherlock's skin--

Well, that was all right, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt over at sherlockbbc_fic: _He takes the flogging on his own free will (as an experiment on a living body perhaps?), trying to look tough and reselient, biting his lips to supress groans. It's the aftercare, with John by his side, so tender and soothing, that makes him break down._


End file.
